Summoned
by Bewilder'd
Summary: Canon-compliant to end of OotP. Harry chases Sirius through the veil—and into the realms of hell, becoming something he never knew existed, but he learns what it is to have a family, and what is considered a normal life by the people around him. While the Order mourns and moves past his death and into war, he becomes the weapon which may be the making or breaking of the Dark Lord.
1. Prologue

**Title: Return from the Veil**

**Author: Bewilder'd**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Pairings: I am open to suggestions for any pairings people might want.**

**Summary: Canon-compliant to end of OotP. Harry chases Sirius through the veil—and into the first realm of hell, becoming something he never knew existed, but learning what it is to have a family. While the Order mourns and moves past his death and into war, he becomes the weapon which may be the making or breaking of the Dark Lord.**

**Most of this chapter is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, for the first and last time.**

**I gain no profit from this.**

* * *

_**Department of Mysteries**_

_**June, 1995**_

Lupin cried, "Harry, round up the others and GO!"

Harry seized Neville by the shoulder of his robes and lifted him bodily on to the first tier of stone steps; Neville's legs twitched and jerked and would not support his weight; Harry heaved again with all the strength he possessed and they climbed another step—

A pell hit the stone bench at Harry's heel; it crumbled away and he fell back to the step below. Neville sank to the ground, his legs still jerking and thrashing, and he thrust the prophecy into his pocket.

"Come on!" said Harry desperately, hauling at Neville's robes. "Just try and push with your legs—"

He gave another stupendous heave and Neville's robes tore all along the left seam—the small spun-glass ball dropped from his pocket and, before either of them could catch it, one of Neville's floundering feet kicked it: it flew some ten feet to their right and smashed on the step beneath them. As both of them stared at the place where it had broken, appalled at what had happened, a pearly-white figure with hugely magnified eyes rose into the air, unnoticed by any but them. Harry could see its mouth moving—_was that _Trelawney_, he wondered—_but in all the crashes and screams and yells surrounding them, not one word of the prophecy could he hear. The figure stopped speaking and dissolved into nothingness.

"Harry, I'b sorry!" cried Neville, his face anguished as his legs continued to flounder. "I'b so sorry, Harry, I didn'd bean do—"

"It doesn't matter~" Harry shouted. "Just try and stand, let's get out of—"

"_Dubbledore!"_ said Neville, his sweaty face suddenly transported, staring over Harry's shoulder.

"What?"

"DUBBLEDORE!"

Harry turned to look where Neville was staring. Directly above them, framed in the doorway from the Brain Room, stood Albus Dumbledore, his wand aloft, his face white and furious. Harry felt a kind of electric charge surge through every particle of his body—_they were saved._

Dumbledore had already sped past Neville and Harry, who had no more thoughts of leaving, when the Death Eaters nearest realized Dumbledore was there and yelled to the others. One of the Death Eaters ran for it, scrabbling like a monkey up the stone steps opposite. Dumbledore's spell pulled him back as easily and effortlessly as though he had hooked him with an invisible line—

Only one pair was still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. Harry saw Sirius duck Bellatrix's jet of red light: he was laughing at her.

"Come on, you can do better than that!" he yelled, his voice echoing around the cavernous room.

The second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest.

The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.

Harry released Neville, though he was unaware of doing so. He jumped to the ground, pulling out his wand, as Dumbledore, too, turned toward the dais.

It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall: his body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backwards through the ragged veil hanging from the arch.

Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind, then fell back into place.

Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange's triumphant scream, but knew it meant nothing—Sirius had only just fallen through the archway, he would reappear from the other side any second…

But Sirius did not reappear.

"SIRIUS!" Harry yelled "SIRIUS!"

He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he Harry would pull him back out, would go in after him…

But as he reached the ground and sprinted towards the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry—"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"—It's too late, Harry."

"We can still reach him—" Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go…

"There's nothing you can do, Harry…nothing…he's gone."

"He hasn't gone!" Harry yelled.

He did not believe it, he would not believe it; still he fought Lupin with every bit of strength he had. Lupin did not understand; people hid behind that curtain; Harry had heard them whispering the first time he had entered the room. Sirius was hiding, simply lurking out of sight—

"SIRUS!" he bellowed. "SIRIUS!"

"He can't come back, Harry," said Lupin, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain Harry, to contain his own sorrow at the loss of his friend. "He can't come back, because he's d—"

"HE—IS—NOT—DEAD!" roared Harry. "SIRIUS!"

And with a final, triumphant pull against Lupin's arms, Harry broke free, broke toward the dais with only one thought in mind: he had to get to Sirius. Without even beginning to think about pulling back, about where he would be going, he charged straight through the veil with none of the slow-motion fall which had been Sirius' fate.

The veil felt like spiderwebs on his face and neck, grasping and pulling and whispering against his ears and cheeks, and the tattered edges danced around his ankles even as he went straight through—he may have lacked hesitation, but it seemed that the archway had turned itself into a long, winding tunnel which propelled him forwards always. He wasn't sure it would ever stop, but if he could only find Sirius, then it would all be worth it…

Remus stared at his arms, aching both from the muscle strain and what it represented. He couldn't move, couldn't raise his eyes for fear of looking at the dais, looking at the killer of the only two connections to a past long since lost to him. He fell to his knees, though, and began shaking, and couldn't contain a keening that rose itself up in his throat. He lost all sense of what was happening around him, except for the knowledge that it was still his duty to protect the Longbottom boy. He would do that, he told himself, because Harry had considered the child his friend, would have wanted him safe.

* * *

He ignored how much pain that thought caused him, and stood, gathering the Longbottom boy and going in search of Dora. The battle was ending.

Neville was staring at his hands. They had him and the rest of the DA who went to the Department of Mysteries, apart from Hermione, who was at St. Mungo's, ensconced in the Hospital Wing while the Order had a meeting. _Funny, how his hands weren't shaking but his pinky finger and both his pointer fingers were trembling more than he thought individual fingers could…._ No one seemed to remember that Neville had also witnessed Harry's…Harry's disappearance. Instead, they needed to discuss it among the adults, and wait to tell the _children._

Ron was still unconscious, of course, and Ginny was frantic. Luna was humming to herself about webs and spiders and strands of fate and wheels…nothing comprehensible, nothing Neville was remotely inclined to interpret, though he usually tried.

"Is Harry in St. Mungo's with Hermione, what happened? I didn't see him get hexed. Was it after he left us?" Ginny was fretting, wringing her hands and pulling at her hair. Her dark eyes were wide and glistening and Neville couldn't stand it.

He rolled over in his bed and pressed his eyes to the pillow, hoping that Ginny would take it as residual pain from the Cruciatus he was exposed to, not reticence to talk. Of course, she didn't realize that he had been under the Cruciatus….

"Neville, do you know something?" she asked. She had always been the best at reading people.

"Harry's not at St. Mungo's," Neville muttered, hoping against all hope that she wouldn't hear him. Or that she would.

"I don't know what you mean…is he up with the Order? Then why didn't we see him?" she asked, unwilling to understand. Neville knew that she probably had already had the thought, and was just unwilling to accept it.

Neville shot up in bed, about to burst out and say it, yell it, scream and mourn and cry it, like he wanted to, because he had considered Harry a friend and a symbol. Someone his age should not just up and _die_ one day. But he didn't get to say anything, for the moment the words wanted to come out, they died on his lips: the doors to the hospital had opened, and Dumbledore, Remus, and Professor Snape walked in with something like a purpose.

The banging open of the doors had woken Ron from his slumber, and he stared at the three arrivals. "Whazzamatter?" he asked blearily, rubbing at the side of his face with an arm that clearly ached. It was bandaged thoroughly, and Madame Pomfrey came over and tutted around him for a moment before she was caught in the baleful gaze belonging to one Severus Snape. Ron shrunk back from the man, paling even more, as if recognizing the hatred once held for Harry would now be transferred to the next possible target.

Neville let out a wordless cry at the thought, and all the eyes in the room swung to his round face except for one pair.

"I must object to you coming into my infirmary and causing a ruckus," Madame Pomfrey said with her eyes narrowed, hands on her hips. "If you are only here to distress my patients, I must request you leave."

Professor Dumbledore heaved a great sigh, and Neville realized that he would not have to be the one to break the news to his friends with a guilty wave of relief. "I am afraid that delaying the news we must deliver would only cause further distress, Poppy. If I may…?" It was clearly not a request, but the Healer nodded, her face pale. She seemed to recognize what the news might be: her favorite patient was not among them, and perhaps she had been more worried for him than she had let on.

Dumbledore sat heavily on the side of one of the hospital beds, in one of the most undignified moves Neville had ever seen him make. Snape remained where he was, his eyes scanning the windows and doors and other beds, as though someone might hide behind the curtains. Lupin sat between Ron and Ginny, resting a hand on the former's shoulder with a gentleness belied by the mournful fury filling his eyes.

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, and nothing came forth. He swallowed, attempted again, and had better luck. "It is, I am very much afraid, my solemn duty to inform you of a most unfortunate loss…we suffered two great blows this night. Your bravery was admirable; sometimes bravery is not enough." Ron and Ginny both trembled at his words; Remus' hand clenched Ron's shoulder so tightly that his knuckles shone white, now, Neville noticed with a numbness he wished he had felt earlier. "We lost both Sirius Black and…and Harry Potter."

Ron and Ginny both shot up, yelling, screaming; but Neville just sat there and let the words wash over him. They didn't feel like enough. Nothing could make it more real than seeing, watching Harry die, chase down the criminal Neville knew only as the cousin of the woman who drove his parents mad and yet, apparently, Harry had loved enough to die when he did. Neville had to know.

"Why did he do it?" he burst out, his words as sharp as the fingers he dug into the mattress to keep them from shaking. "Why would he follow _Black_ through the archway? How _could_ he?"

To his shock, Ron stopped yelling, even let out and "oh" that sounded nearly of understanding. Neville's fury rose, and he could feel his face growing red.

"Sirius was Harry's godfather," Lupin said, his voice even more hoarse than usual, his eyes red but dry. He was pale, and somehow he seemed to have grown even more grey since the few hours since Neville had seen him. "In Harry's mind, and in Sirius', they were as near to father and son as they could be. I don't think…Harry couldn't let the only family he had left go, especially when he wasn't convinced that the veil meant death."

Ginny was crying, wrenching sobs that should have made noise but sounded like she couldn't. Even Pomfrey had tears running down her face, and Snape was sort of patting her shoulder with a distinct look of disgust in his wrinkled nose. Dumbledore looked as though he had aged one hundred years in an hour.

Ron and Neville looked at each other, both crying and refusing to acknowledge it. They nodded, knowing that someone would need to keep the DA going the next year, that someone would need to take up Harry's standard, that someone would need to do the most fearsome task in the world and tell Hermione….

That someone, not Harry Potter, would need to take on Voldemort, because Harry was no longer here to perform his task.

Neville swore to himself that he would repay his debt to his friend by doing so in Harry's name.

* * *

Harry was falling through a black, whirling and burning and smoking tunnel, his body ripping and flaming as he twisted and turned within it. He felt as though it had been hours since he had gone through the arch, felt as though the burning in his lungs and bones and back would never go away. But then, just as he was suspecting that the veil really had meant death, the tunnel spat him out onto a landscape as grey as the veil had been with a final whisper in his ear: _our gift to you._

There was Sirius, sprawled in front of him, and breathing harshly. He was bruised, and his eyes were closed, but he was breathing and his wand lay next to him, only a few inches from his fingertips.

Harry nearly cried, beaming. He slumped over, exhausted, his back throbbing with pain, instead: only one thought was repeating itself, again and again, in his mind.

Sirius was alive.

Harry shook with the effort it took to stand up and drag himself over to his godfather: his bones still ached with the fall. It was worth it: as soon as his pale, trembling fingers brushed the man's wrist, Sirius jolted awake. His grey eyes started open, snapping to stare into the face of his godson with shock. He groaned.

"Idiot," he whispered, as though he couldn't get up enough effort to use his voice.

"Shut it, you," Harry said, crossing his legs under him and checking both of them over to ensure that neither of them were worse for wear. "Where do you think we are?" he asked, looking around. It was a harsh, barren landscape, with a grey sky and greyer ground. Pockets in the ground erupted in ash and smoke every now and then, with hissing and spitting noises, startling no animals from their nests—either they were used to the noises, or there were none around. Plants seemed to be few and far between, and they had come out near a cliff face. Harry thought he could hear the sound of water, which might yet mean people or animals, and he hoped maybe for the former—but they could be dangerous, so he shut that hope down as quickly as he felt it.

Sirius sighed, less of a sound than a breath. He struggled to sit up, opening his mouth, "Damn. I feel as though I've had a hole ripped right through me," he grumbled. "Damn, though, Harry. _Why?_ Why would you follow me?"

"You're the only father I've ever known, Padfoot," Harry said, his voice going soft. He looked away, though it didn't help the choking feeling in his throat. "I couldn't—I couldn't lose that, not again."

Sirius' eyes gentled, the grey going softer than usual. He tried to stand, and stumbled—he had injured his ankle in the fall from the veil. "Help me out, kid." The words let Harry know that he was forgiven, at least for now. He rushed forward and knelt next to his godfather, peering at his ankle.

"Mind casting a bit of light this way?" he suggested. "I'm not sure if that's dirt or blood."

"_Lumos_," was Sirius' only reply. Nothing happened, the wand just remained in its usual state, without a light shining nor even the faintest sparkle. He frowned, deeply, the motion cutting into wrinkles which had been made in Azkaban. He swallowed and tapped his wand on his leg, then tried again. Even an explosion or a fire would have been more reassuring—there was nothing, not a bit of magic. His godfather raised his face up, mouth agape. Panic edged Sirius' grey eyes, now, and Harry stared at him in shock.

He thought wildly, his thoughts landing on the veil and the tunnel—the only thing which could have done something to his godfather which a spell couldn't fix. "Did you hear a voice when you landed?" he asked, hoping that he hadn't.

Sirius nodded, paling further.

"Shit," Harry swore. "It didn't happen to say that it'd given you a gift, did it?" he asked, his voice lifting hopefully at the end.

Sirius groaned. "It told me that '_I would pay the price'_," he said, the words rough and ragged. He was basically a squib.

"It took your bloody magic," Harry said, not a hint of inflection, not quite believing it. "Unbelievable." He glared at the sky, but then wondered. "Do you think you can still become a dog?" he asked, curious now. "I mean, no harm trying."

Sirius shrugged. "I suppose I might be able to. The rituals to become an animagus run on a bit of different magic, so who knows." The man concentrated a moment, then his entire body shuddered and shrank and shifted—in his place was a massive black dog, shaggy and wagging a long furry tail. He barked, his tongue lolling out in happiness.

"Congratulations," Harry said, grinning back.

Sirius tilted his head to the side, his ears twitching around a bit—he looked at Harry and pawed the ground twice.

"Two people?" Harry guessed. He received a tail wag. "Okay. Stay dog, maybe. If they're dangerous, we can take them by surprise." This was met with even more tail wagging, and a bit of exaggerated settling down in the ground next to Harry. He rolled his eyes a bit as they waited for their visitors.

Harry stood when Sirius pawed at him nervously, patting his head to reassure him. It felt—odd, somehow, having his godfather be a dog. Like he ought to take charge, even though Sirius was older and more experienced—because, well, he was also, at this point in time, a _dog._

The two people emerged from behind a rock soon after he had that thought, shoving it far out of his head. They were a pair of women who were obviously related: mother and daughter, if Harry had his guesses, and one a few years younger than Sirius, the other perhaps twenty or so years older. They drew near, studying him with caution. They both had a pair of bright, amber eyes; they reminded him almost more of a wolf than even Lupin's, and Harry pushed back a shock of mourning. He had made his choice, and it was Sirius.

"Welcome, visitor," the younger of them said. She had a long wave of bright auburn curls tumbling down her back and catching in the wind; Harry heard a thump of approval from Sirius' tail and had to hold in a snort of laughter. "What brings you to us?"

"My companion fell through a veil, and I followed," Harry said, letting his hand fall on Sirius' head. "I'm afraid that my dog is a bit too curious for his own good."

The two women shared a smile. "You came of your own will, and so may enter, visitor. You may even bring your foolish animal," the elder one said. "I am Rowan, and this is is your name?"

"Evan Grey, ma'am," Harry said, thinking swiftly. Grey—not quite a Black, and Evan for his mother. It wasn't a lie. "The animal is Grim."

"Evan Grey and his Grim," the younger said now. "So long as you are willing, you are welcome to our village, and to our home until you make your own."

They turned, and Harry ran a bit to catch up, Sirius at his heels. "Where, exactly, am I?" he asked after a few moments. "I didn't do much research before I followed him, you see."

The two women laughed. "Such blind loyalty to a dog. It's fascinating, rare, and rather stupid," the younger, Hanna, explained. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her dress and looked at him sidelong. "You are strange, young one."

Harry shrugged. "I've been called worse before."

"You will be called worse until you prove yourself," Rowan warned him. "You're in Hell."

* * *

**Okay, so if there is a specific pairing you'd like to see, let me know. I honestly don't really have any preference on which way to go with them—slash, no slash, whatever—I don't care. Even if it seems like I'm just going to make a character a side character, feel free to just shout out something. I have no intentions of hinging this story on the romance, so I can throw in random romantic scenes for fun. Although I do have plans for one pair of characters...but other than the two of them, everyone is game.**


	2. Broken Oath

**Title: Return from the Veil**

**Author: Maeda Asuka**

**Rating: PG-13**

**Pairings: I am open to suggestions for any pairings people might want.**

**_8 Years after the Department of Mysteries_**

**_Hogwarts, the Restricted Section_**

"I found it," Draco said, his grey eyes lighting on a particular spot of text and remaining there, almost quivering with the excitement of research reaching its conclusion. "I found the answer!"

His companion, the bushy-haired Transfiguration Student Professor, raised her head and _beamed_ at him, the expression on her face and in her eyes detracting from the red mark of her hand and nails impressed into her skin. The two of them had been there for hours, looking and looking for the solution to a problem both of their masters had put them to, hoping to keep both of them out of their hair for a while and not thinking that they would be of any actual help to the Order of the Phoenix. But the two of them had put their heads together and promised to make something out of the assignment, and make something of it they did.

"What does it say?" Hermione asked him, leaning forward over the table and brushing her hair impatiently away from her face. Draco grumbled and retrieved a length of twine from his robe pocket, which he had taken to carrying around with him in the last year and a half that they had worked together at the school, handing it to her. She grinned and tied her hair back.

"The text validates the claim that Achilles truly was a demon, summoned from the depths of hell to wage war on the city of Troy by the Greeks," Draco said, his voice reverent with the thought of such power, control over a legendary figure. "Well, it doesn't so much validate it as it says that it is possible—that Achilles was so long ago that he could have emerged, and fought, and then had his story twisted through the years. The most important part of what it says is that the existence of demons is a point of fact—and that they can be summoned, can be controlled, and remain on this plane for as long as the summoner has need of them. Which means that the Order can use them to gain back what we have lost to to the Dark Lord."

Unlike his blatant enthusiasm, Hermione bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "Does this count as Dark Arts, though? Is this something Voldemort would be willing to do?" she asked. Her words were quiet, cautious in a way that his had not been. That was why they worked well together—what one found reason to support, the other saw reason to be cautious, and together they found the middle ground, and thus the best way to present the arguments. Professors Snape and McGonagall should have seen that before setting them to work together, but Draco supposed that the two of them still didn't understand that their two pupils were already past arguing and already in the midst of friendship.

"I reckon that it is," Draco murmured. His face was pale, but set. He was determined—Achilles and others like him, he had no doubt, had been the making and breaking of countless wars in the past. This could be what threw off the Dark Lord and set the chessboard so that the Order could win—the pawn that made it to the other side. "We're summoning a Dark Creature, and binding its will to our own. But we also have to look at the options if we don't do this, if we don't summon a powerful creature who could wage the war of an army by himself: we might succumb to the constant warfare, the deaths of the Muggleborns and the attacks. The Dark Lord could finally succeed." He reached a hand up and brushed the scar on the side of Hermione's cheek. He was the only one allowed to do so, because he had been the one to heal it following the raid on Diagon Alley where she had earned it. "With a demon on our side and no chance to choose the Dark Lord's, we might finally have a chance that we lost when we lost Potter."

By now, everyone had heard of the Prophecy. It had been used to instill faith in Longbottom, the new 'Chosen One', the new icon for the Order—the new boy trying to prove himself in Potter's wake. He scrambled like a hamster in a wheel, with Weasley steadfastly at his side the entire time. Both Hermione and Draco, surprisingly, resented them for it—no one could take Potter's place, not in the rivalry once shared, nor in friendship, nor in the Prophecy. But those who had been adults when they lost Potter, or most of them, had tried to support Longbottom, and inflated his head nearly as much as Potter's had been.

Hermione bowed her head. "I understand that. But what are we working to save if we are willing to do the same thing that he is? This—this is _slavery,_ Draco, pure and simple. Worse than the house-elves, I reckon, because demons are _clever._ I'm not saying that elves aren't smart or powerful, of course," she hastened to add.

"I know," he soothed her. "But—well, demons are evil. That's why they're demons, Hermione. Elves are, well, they're elves. They're good, and caring, and kind. Their enslavement is worse, actually." He was saying exactly what he needed to, he knew, and he felt a little bad about the manipulation, but he also knew her well enough to know that she would recognize it as manipulation and ignore it if she wanted to, or let him use it on her if she wanted to be persuaded. Since she was nodding along, albeit reluctantly, with a wry twist to her mouth, he expected that she was going to let it slide.

"Do we know the ritual?" Hermione asked, finally, after letting silence remain for a moment. Draco gave a mental cheer for her acquiescence, but bent his head back over the book.

"Doesn't look like they're willing to give out details." He rolled his eyes. Of course there was nothing _useful_. "But…you know what we can do?" he continued, looking up with a gleam in his eye. "Find it. Then bring it up not to our most esteemed professors, but at the Order meeting, where we can't be censored and we can actually get this put to a vote. Dora will be with us, and she could get Lupin in on it. Fred will vote with you, George will vote with Fred. Fleur generally goes with me and Bill with Fleur; Mrs. Weasley goes with the majority of her sons, and Mr. Weasley follows his wife."

"But those aren't the higher ranking members, and neither are we," Hermione pointed out. But despite the words of doubt, Draco could see her calculating mind at work. "We need to worry about Mistress Minerva and Professor Snape, then again about Moody—he'll go with Dumbledore, of course, who is our most worrisome possible opponent to this scheme. The others might not recognize it as Dark Magic, but those four will, and possibly Bill too. He's seen a lot, working for Gringotts."

"He and Fleur might not even be there," Draco pointed out. "They've been having troubles with Victoire. I had to babysit last weekend: she's rather colicky."

"That's something I never thought would be something to think about in regard to Order meetings," Hermione chuckled. "So if just Fleur comes, that's something, but if only Bill, that's a point against us. Remus knows more about Dark Creatures than anyone else I know, though. And if Madam Tonks comes—"

"Aunt Andromeda was a Black," Draco said, eyes darkening. "If anyone knows the rituals and what they mean, it would be her."

"Exactly."

"Which means that she might know exactly what kind of rituals we're looking for," Draco said. A wicked smile curved over his mouth as he shut the thick, dusty tome with a _thump._ It groaned. "Shut it, you. And Aunt Andromeda wouldn't have as many scruples regarding Dark Magic as some of the other Order members—she may have been taken off the tapestry, but it was for morals regarding blood purity. They're two completely different things."

Hermione gave him a humorless grin. "You mean how I'm your best friend but you use Dark Magic on an almost daily basis?"

"Yes, that," Draco agreed. "So we need to ask my aunt." It wouldn't be hard: the Tonks' had taken him in when his family had tried to kill him for deserting the Dark Lord in favor of the Order. His mother had done it more for choosing what looked to be the losing side, his father for his betrayal of the purebloods and their beliefs. Draco chose to see it as picking a life that didn't involve bowing and scraping, something which his pride would never allow. If he had to revise his belief system regarding blood purity, so be it. And he did, discovering a delightful intellectual and study partner in Hermione Granger, the one person who wouldn't let him give up on his dream of being a Potions Master and simultaneously becoming the person to whom she turned when the stress got to her in her own studies of Transfiguration under a teacher almost harsher than his own. But he would not give up his opinions on the Dark Arts, because he saw those as just another branch of magic, wieldable in the right situations by the right people.

"If we can find the ritual by tonight, by the Order meeting, then I'll help you present our findings to the Order," she told him with a sigh, breaking him from his thoughts. "But if we don't, we'll present them solely to the professors and Dumbledore, and allow them to reach their own conclusions. If they want us to keep searching out the rituals, then we will. If they want us to abandon this path, then we will. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Draco said. He hid his reluctance well, he knew. Hermione glared at him anyway, more out of suspicion that he felt it than anything else. "Let's go, shall we? I'm pretty sure that Aunt Andromeda will make you tea while we ask her questions."

"The good kind." Good for her, anyway.

"The nasty kind, I promise."

**_Tonks Family Home_**

**_Drawing Room_**

"You cannot be serious," Hermione said, drinking deeply from the mug of tea provided to her almost as soon as she set foot through the fireplace. Andromeda had taken a particular fancy to the girl, and always seemed to be thinking in terms of her and Draco's imminent relationship—both of them were rather inclined to disappoint the poor woman, partially because they both held the unspoken, somewhat shameful knowledge that Hermione preferred redheads. One in particular.

"I am afraid so, my dears," Andromeda said quietly, her dark eyes solemn as she lowered her own teacup. Her manners were much more delicate than a Muggleborn's could be even with Hermione's efforts, but Draco knew that she valued that aspect of Hermione even as the actions bothered her. It was the same way she regarded her own husband and daughter, and refrained from teaching them the refinement she had grown up around. Instead, she and Draco had engaged in the courtly politeness that both felt comfortable with and couldn't express outside of their own company without fear of exclusion. "I was raised with the knowledge of demon-kind from my childhood—I am almost surprised that you were not, Draco, or I would be, were it not for how much the stories disturbed your mother as we grew. Bellatrix had her convinced that she was a demon-kind summoned to obey the family will and only that, for as long as she lived. I am not sure she ever recovered from that delusion," the woman mused.

"It sounds like a twisted version of the adoption joke Muggle children play on their younger siblings," Hermione said, sounding disgusted. "I can't say I'm surprised."

"No. But the important matter is the fact that we all had some idea of how a demon summoning worked, and what manner of demon-kind there were," Andromeda pointed out. "The succubi and incubi, the warriors, the animal spirits, the tricksters, the elementals, and the death demons. And there are, of course, hybrids, and demons who win powers from their rivals and accomplishments. The favorite Black family demon, of course, the one whose ritual was passed down from heir to heir."

"Do you know the ritual?" Hermione asked. Draco sighed: she was too eager to recall the truth of Andromeda's upbringing to remember that his aunt had rejected that upbringing in favor of her husband.

"I am not the heir of my family," Andromeda stated. "But I know the basics of how one would work: you would need the summoning name of the demon—most have more than one name, but can only be controlled by the correct one. You need a potion, one which represents the demon's powers. Many require a sacrifice that indicates knowledge of the demon, and what commands they will be willing to take—if a demon objects to something, like the killing of children, then it will sometimes prefer death or the stripping of its powers that results in returning to hell."

"It's a demon," Draco pointed out, the callousness of his remark escaping him for a moment. "How sensitive and moral can it be?"

"I'm just repeating what I've been told," Andromeda said mildly, tapping a thumb against her teacup. "Shall I go on?"

Draco nodded, his eyes lowered, properly scolded.

"An incantation must be spoken, and then the rest of the ritual is tailored to the type of demon being summoned."

"So basically," Hermione just about groaned, "we have to determine what we're summoning, and pick a specific demon, before we even prepare the ritual?"

"Precisely," Andromeda said, hiding her mouth behind a teacup. Her eyes glimmered with laughter anyway, giving the smile away to anyone Slytherin enough to see it.

"Great."

"Well, I suppose we'll just talk to the professors and Dumbledore, then," Draco said, setting his untouched tea down on a side table. "They may set us to a specific subset of demon, thus narrowing the research, or they may forbid us researching at all. We can still do this."

"You're right," Hermione said, smiling at him. "And we can get Ron and Neville to help us!"

"If we must." Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring Hermione's scowl when she noticed. He turned back to Andromeda. "Care to come with us to the Order meeting tonight?"

"I'll be there, but you two go ahead without me," his aunt said, standing and collecting the tea things back onto a tray. She kissed them both on the cheek before sending them back through the fireplace.

Draco strode gracefully back into their shared rooms in Hogwarts even as Hermione stumbled slightly beside him, catching her elbow as she coughed a bit. The Hogwarts wards had a tendency to mess with the travel, and Hermione was less hesitant about showing such weakness as he. The small commons of their shared quarters was empty, he saw as he looked around and patted her back a little.

There was always a surge of comfort when he was in this room. It was rather spartan compared to what he had grown up with, but he and Hermione had purchased everything themselves or it had been provided by Hogwarts in a color scheme they had picked out. A grey colored couch sat in front of the large fireplace, carefully spelled against any flyaway soot, and a large, navy blue rug sprawled in front of it, thick and comforting. Secondhand and unmatched end tables sat next to equally mismatched chairs: one was overlarge and cushy, with a footstool in front of it, both of which were not the same color as the couch, and the other was more ornate, the same blue as the rug, and spelled to be comfortable rather than actually being so. They both fought over the chair that was technically Hermione's.

A kitchen was tucked into the corner, barely finding room amongst numerous bookshelves lining the walls. Despite the fact that both professor-students usually ate in the Great Hall with everyone else, they occasionally were so absorbed in their studies and research and grading that eating in their quarters was the easier option. As well as the fact that Hermione occasionally objected to house-elf prepared food, and insisted on cooking her own monstrosities.

There were three doors from this room to others: one to Draco's bedroom, one to Hermione's, and one to the corridor outside. The last was a portrait with watchful eyes. Dumbledore had been doubtful when they had requested quarters together at the beginning of the year, and a portrait guarded the entrance under the guise of a young, innocent, obnoxiously pink-dressed girl, but they both knew that she reported to the headmaster. He doubted their reasoning: that the two of them helped each other study, and provided a comfortable air of competitiveness while at the same time offering support.

"They'll be meeting in Grimmauld Place," Hermione said, yawning and looking at the comfortable chair with longing as she went and fetched some of their research papers, on the off chance that they would have to present to other members of the Order. "We can pull the professors to the side before the meeting begins."

"Let's go," Draco said, casting his own glance at the chair and the book he had left on the foot stool, carefully marked off on an interesting potions theory he wanted to look into further.

Instead, they exited their fireplace once more, calling out the name of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix as they went. Hermione went first, and then Draco followed, a tad more gracefully. McGonagall greeted them as they exited into the drawing room, dusting off the ash and then walking toward the kitchen.

"I hope you've been studying and doing your grading," she greeted, mostly directing the comment toward her own pupil. Hermione nodded meekly.

"All day long," Draco said, not entirely exaggerating. He tilted his head to one side and observed his old professor as they went in and sat around the familiar meeting table—round, and just large enough to suit the number of people who would be coming. Currently, there were four occupied chairs, as Moody stood glaring in the corner of the room. McGonagall looked—haggard, more so than when he had seen her that morning, in fact. Her bun was nearly falling from its knot, and her eyes were flickering about. Her greeting had been routine, he realized, and not a way to check on their special project.

"We found something," Hermione murmured. Moody's eyes, both of them, snapped over toward them. McGonagall stared momentarily, and then nodded.

"I didn't expect that so soon," she admitted. "Very well, I suppose we'll have to speak about that tomorrow."

"We want to talk with you and Master Severus and the headmaster tonight," Draco said, his voice equally as quiet, and his eyes resting on Moody, daring him to eavesdrop. "We—we think it can be done."

The Transfiguration professor flinched, but didn't answer. Dora and her mother walked in, the former greeting her cousin with a hug and a hit on the arm, more from clumsiness than actual aggression. Andromeda just smiled at him and took her seat at the table. Dora announced, "Remus is still recovering from the full moon, so he won't be here, but I'm to bring him back news of whatever we discuss."

"We should have realized that," Hermione muttered. Draco nodded.

More Order members flooded in: the Weasley twins—laughing and jesting as though there wasn't a war on, a fact belied by the way they actually moved in a room, with flickering eyes and hands on their wands—and their younger brother, Longbottom at his side, as well as Shacklebolt, whom they hadn't counted on, as well as Fleur, who looked just as haggard as a young, quarter-Veela mother with a colicky baby would be expected to appear. Which was only a little bit more tired than usual.

Severus and Dumbledore followed soon after, but it was clear that they were expecting more people, as they didn't start the meeting immediately. The two student-professors shared a look and broke away from their conversation with Dora and the youngest male Weasley—one could guess who was speaking to whom—to capture their audience and draw them into the room reserved for private meetings, something that they had long ago acknowledged could be necessary, with Severus acting as spy for the Order and none of them aware who could be a spy for the Dark Lord.

"What is this about?" Severus asked, fixing his student with a black eyed stare that would have intimidated him, had Draco not been used to it by this point.

"The research project you gave us, sir," he said quietly, his eyes meeting the black glare evenly. Severus broke first, as he had known he would, being a Legilimens. They didn't like eye contact that they didn't initiate. "Hermione and I completed it as much as we could, and we have found that it could be immensely beneficial to our cause."

"What is this project, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling over the half-moon glasses.

"I—we," Severus corrected himself, glancing at the silent McGonagall, "set these two to studying the lore of Achilles, and the theories of his kind."

"The demon-kind," Dumbledore said, his voice soft and face drawn. Draco was startled. The old man knew exactly what they were talking about, and seemed not to be even surprised at their studying it. "Of course. It is a tempting path, and a powerful one. It could perhaps lead to our salvation, were the correct demon to be summoned." He hesitated.

"You know of a demon-kind to summon, sir?" Hermione asked. Her face had gone pale, and her eyes were a dull brown that Draco recognized. She was disappointed, not because of the result of the research and the knowledge, but because her faith in this authority figure had failed her. He brushed the sleeve of her robe with his fingers, giving her a small smile in reassurance. She smiled back.

"I know of one that could help us a great deal," Dumbledore said in a faraway tone. "He has…assisted in the defeat of a previous Dark Lord, and indeed is not unfamiliar with the works of Voldemort. He is very powerful, one of the more powerful of his kind."

"What kind is he?" Draco asked, his eagerness and curiosity about the demon outweighing his caution.

Hermione reminded him of it. "How do you know of him?" was her question, assuring him that the cautious side of his personality would also be assuaged.

"He is a death demon," Dumbledore said solemnly. "And were it not for the grave news I bring today, to this meeting, I would perhaps not consider summoning him, as you two clearly wish for me to do." He fixed them with a heavy stare, and Draco had to hold still from shrinking away from it. "I gave him a promise not to summon him a fourth time, a promise which I must now break."


End file.
